Night Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  “How could this have happened, Boris Ignatievich?” I asked. “This is a lot more serious than a brick falling on someone’s head, or even a gas explosion in a hallway . . .”

  “We’re doing everything we can.” The boss seemed to think he had to justify himself to me. “All the missile silos are under our control; the same measures have been taken in America and France, and they’re just being put in place in China. Things are a bit trickier with the tactical nuclear weapons. We’re having big problems locating all the operational laser satellites. The city’s full of all sorts of bacteriological garbage . . . an hour ago there was almost a leak from the Virological Research Institute.”

  “You can’t cheat destiny,” I said guardedly.

  “Exactly. We’re plugging the holes in the bottom of the ship, and the ship’s already breaking in half.”

  I suddenly noticed that everyone—the Dark Magician, Olga, Lena, and the warriors—was looking at me. I began feeling uncomfortable.

  “Boris Ignatievich?”

  “You’re linked to her.”

  “What?”

  The boss sighed and took the tube out of his mouth. The cold opium smoke streamed out onto the floor.

  “You, Anton Gorodetsky, a programmer, unmarried, of average abilities, are linked to the girl with that vile black filth hanging over her head.”

  The Dark Magician in the corner sighed softly. I couldn’t think of anything better to say than, “Why?”

  “I don’t know. We sent Ignat to her, and he did a good job. You know he can seduce absolutely anyone.”

  “But it didn’t work with her?”

  “It did. Only the vortex started to grow. They spent half an hour together and the vortex grew from a meter and a half to twenty-five meters. We had to call him off . . . quickly.”

  I glanced sideways at the Dark Magician. Zabulon appeared to be looking at the floor, but he immediately raised his head. This time my defensive shield didn’t react: The amulet gave me secure protection.

  “We don’t need this,” he said in a low voice. “Only a savage would kill an elephant to get a small steak for his breakfast.”

  The comparison shocked me. But he seemed to be telling the truth.

  “We don’t require destruction on this scale very often,” the Dark Magician continued. “At the moment we don’t have any ongoing projects that require such a large-scale discharge of energy.”

  “I really hope you don’t . . .” said the boss, in a strange, grating voice. “Zabulon, what you have to understand is that if this disaster does happen . . . we’ll squeeze everything we can out of it too.”

  The shadow of a smile appeared on the Dark Magician’s face.

  “The number of people who will be horrified by what happens, who will spill tears of sympathy with others’ grief, will be very great. But there will be more, infinitely more, who will sit with their eyes glued greedily to their TV screens, who will take pleasure in other people’s suffering, feel glad that it passed their city by, and make jokes about the retribution meted out to the Third Rome . . . retribution from on high. You know that, my enemy.”

  He wasn’t gloating; the highest-ranking Dark Ones don’t react in such primitive ways. He was stating a fact.

  “Nonetheless, we’re ready,” said Boris Ignatievich. “You know that.”

  “I know, but we are in a more advantageous position. Unless you have a pair of aces up your sleeve, Boris.”

  “You know I always have all four.”

  The boss turned toward me as if he’d completely lost all interest in the Dark Magician:

  “Anton, the vortex isn’t being nourished by the Day Watch. Whoever created it is working on his own, an unknown Dark Magician of hideous strength. He sensed Ignat’s presence and accelerated the pace of events. Now you’re our only hope.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you, Anton, you’re linked. There are three divergences in the probability field.”

  The boss waved his hand and a white screen unfurled in the air. Zabulon frowned; he must have been caught by the edge of the energy discharge.

  “The first path along which events can develop,” said the boss. A black stripe ran across the white sheet that hung in the middle of the room without any visible means of support. Then it blurred, spreading out in an ugly blot that extended beyond the edge of the screen.

  “This is the most probable path. The vortex attains its maximum power and the Inferno erupts. Millions killed. A global cataclysm—nuclear, biological, asteroid impact, a twenty-point earthquake. You name it.”

  “And a direct infernal discharge?” I asked cautiously, glancing sideways at the Dark Magician. His face remained impassive.

  “No. I don’t think so. The threshold’s still a long way off.” The boss shook his head. “Otherwise, I think the Day Watch and the Night Watch would have wiped each other out already. The second path . . .”

  A thin line, leading away from the black stripe. Broken off abruptly.

  “Elimination of the target. If the target dies, the vortex will disperse . . . of its own accord.”

  Zabulon stirred and said politely:

  “I’m prepared to help with this little initiative. Night Watch cannot carry it out on its own, I believe? We are at your service.”

  Silence. Then the boss laughed.

  “As you wish,” said Zabulon with a shrug. “I repeat: For the time being we offer you our assistance. We don’t want a global catastrophe that will wipe out millions of people in an instant. Not yet.”

  “The third path,” said the boss, looking at me. “Watch carefully.”

  Another line, branching off from the main root, gradually growing thinner and fading away to nothing.

  “That’s what happens if you get involved, Anton.”

  “What do I have to do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Probability forecasting has never been an exact science. I only know one thing: You can remove the vortex.”

  I suddenly had the stupid idea that maybe I was still being tested. A field-work test . . . I’d killed the vampire, and now . . . But it couldn’t be. Not with such high stakes!

  “I’ve never removed any black vortices.” My voice sounded different, not exactly frightened, more surprised. The Dark Magician Zabulon giggled repulsively, with a woman’s voice.

  The boss nodded:

  “I know that, Anton.”

  He stood up, pulled his gown around him, and walked up to me. He looked absurd; his oriental garb seemed like an awkward parody in the setting of an ordinary Moscow apartment.

  “Nobody has ever removed any vortices like this one. You’ll be the first to try.”

  I said nothing.

  “And don’t forget, Anton, if you mess this up . . . even just a tiny bit, anything at all . . . you’ll be the first to burn. You won’t even have enough time to withdraw into the Twilight. You know what happens to Light Ones when they’re caught in an Inferno eruption?”

  My throat went dry. I nodded.

  “Pardon me, my dear enemy,” Zabulon said mockingly, “but don’t you allow your colleagues the right to choose? In such situations, even in wartime, it has always been usual to call for volunteers.”

  “We’ve already made our call for volunteers,” the boss snapped without turning around. “We’ve all been volunteers for a long time already. And we don’t have any choice.”

  “But we do. Always.” The Dark Magician laughed again.

  “When we acknowledge that human beings have the right to choose, we deprive ourselves of it, Zabulon,” said Boris Ignatievich, with a glance at the Dark Magician. “You’re playing to the wrong audience here. Don’t interfere.”

  “I say no more.” Zabulon lowered his head and shrank down again.

  “Give it your best shot,” said the boss. “Anton, I can’t give you any advice. Try. I beg you, please, try. And . . . forget everything you’ve been taught. Don’t believe anything I’ve said; don’t believe what you wrote
in your course notes; don’t believe your own eyes; don’t believe what anyone else says.”

  “Then what do I believe, Boris Ignatievich?”

  “If I knew that, Anton, I’d walk straight out of this headquarters and across to that entrance myself.”

  We both looked out the window at the same moment. The black vortex was still swirling around and around, swaying from side to side. Someone walking along the sidewalk suddenly turned to face into the snow and started making a wide circle around the stalk of the vortex. I noticed a path had already been trodden along the edge of the road: The people couldn’t see the Evil straining to strike their world, but they could sense its approach.

  “I’ll watch Anton,” Olga said, “back him up, and maintain communications contact.”

  “From outside,” the boss agreed. “Only from outside . . . Anton . . . go. We’ll do the best we can to screen you from any kind of observation.”

  The white owl flew up off the bed and landed on my shoulder.

  I glanced at my friends, then at the Dark Magician—he looked like he’d gone into hibernation—and walked out of the room. The noise in the rest of the apartment faded immediately.

  They showed me out in total silence, without any unnecessary words, without any shoulder-slapping or helpful advice. After all, what I was doing wasn’t such a big deal. I was only on my way to die.

  It was quiet.

  Too quiet somehow, even for a bedroom community of Moscow at that late hour. As if everyone had shut themselves in at home, turned out the lights, and huddled down with their head under the blanket, keeping quiet, saying nothing. Quiet, but not sleeping. The only movement was the trembling of the blue and red spots in the windows—the TVs were switched on everywhere. It had become a habit already, when you were afraid, when you were suffering—switch on the TV and watch absolutely anything, from the shopping network to the news. People can’t see the Twilight world. But they are capable of sensing how close it is.

  “Olga, what can you tell me about this vortex?”

  “Nothing definite.”

  So that was it?

  I stood in front of the entrance, watching the stalk of the vortex flexing like an elephant’s trunk. I didn’t feel like going in just yet.

  “When . . . what size of vortex can you extinguish?”

  “Five meters high, and I have a shot at it. Three meters and it’s a sure thing.”

  “And will the girl survive if you do that?”

  “She might.”

  There was something bothering me. In this unnatural silence, with even the cars in the street trying to avoid this doomed district of the city, there were still some sounds left . . .

  Then it hit me. The dogs were howling. In all the apartments in all the buildings on all sides, the miserable dogs were complaining to their owners—in quiet, pitiful, helpless voices. They could see the Inferno moving closer.

  “Olga, information about the girl. All of it.”

  “Svetlana Nazarova. Twenty-five years old. Physician, employed in polyclinic number seventeen. Has never previously come to the attention of the Night Watch. Has never previously come to the attention of the Day Watch. No magical powers detected. Her parents and younger brother live in Brateevo; she maintains occasional contact with them, mostly by phone. Four girlfriends, currently being checked, so far nothing exceptional. Relations with other people equable; no serious hostility observed.”

  “A doctor,” I said thoughtfully. “That’s a lead, Olga. Some old man or old woman dissatisfied . . . with their treatment. There’s usually an upsurge of latent magical powers in the later years of life . . .”

  “That’s being checked out,” Olga replied. “So far nothing’s turned up.”

  There was no point; it was stupid making wild guesses; people cleverer than I am had already been working on the girl for half a day.

  “What else?”

  “Blood group O. No serious illnesses, occasional mild cardiac arhythmia. First sexual contact at the age of seventeen, with one of her peers, out of curiosity. She was married four months; has been divorced for two years; relations with her ex-husband have remained equable. No children.”

  “The husband’s powers?”

  “He hasn’t any. Neither does his new wife. That’s the first thing that was checked.”

  “Enemies?”

  “Two female ill-wishers at work. Two rejected admirers at work. A school friend who tried to get a fake sick-note six months ago.”

  “And?”

  “She refused.”

  “Well, well. And how much magic have they got?”

  “Next to none. Their malevolence quotient is ordinary. They all have only weak magical powers. They couldn’t create a vortex like this one.”

  “Any patients died? Recently?”

  “None.”

  “Then where did the curse come from?” I asked myself. Yes, now I could see why the Watch had gotten nowhere with this. Svetlana had turned out to be a goody two-shoes. Five enemies in twenty-five years—that was really something to be proud of.

  Olga didn’t answer my rhetorical question.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said. I turned toward the windows, where I could see the two guards’ silhouettes. One of them waved to me. “Olga, how did Ignat try to work this?”

  “The standard approach. A meeting in the street, the ‘diffident intellectual’ line. Coffee in a bar. Conversation. A rapid rise in the mark’s attraction. He bought champagne and liqueur; they came here.”

  “And after that?”

  “The vortex started to grow.”

  “And the reason?”

  “There was none. She liked Ignat; in fact, she was starting to feel powerfully attracted. But at precisely that moment the vortex started to grow catastrophically fast. Ignat ran through three styles of behavior and managed to get an unambiguous invitation to stay the night. That was when the vortex shifted gear into explosive growth. He was recalled. The vortex stabilized.”

  “How was he recalled?”

  I was frozen through already, and my boots felt disgustingly damp on my feet. And I still wasn’t ready for action.

  “The ‘sick mother’ line. A call to his cell phone, he apologized, promised to call her tomorrow. There were no hitches; the mark didn’t get suspicious.”

  “And the vortex stabilized?”

  Olga didn’t answer; she was obviously communicating with the analysts.

  “It even shrank a little bit. Three centimeters. But that might just be natural recoil when the energy input’s cut off.”

  There was something in all this, but I couldn’t formulate my vague suspicions clearly.

  “Where’s her medical practice, Olga?”

  “Right here, we’re in it. It includes this house. Patients often come to her apartment.”

  “Excellent. Then I’ll go as a patient.”

  “Do you need any help implanting false memories?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  “The boss says okay,” Olga replied after a pause. “Go ahead. Your persona is: Anton Gorodetsky, programmer, unmarried, under observation for three years, diagnosis—stomach ulcer, resident in this building, apartment number sixty-four. It’s empty right now; if necessary, we can provide backup on that.”

  “Three years is too much for me,” I confessed. “A year. One year, max.”

  “Okay.”

  I looked at Olga, and she looked at me with those unblinking bird’s eyes, and somewhere in there I could still see part of that dirty, aristocratic woman who’d drunk cognac with me in my kitchen.

  “Good luck,” she said. “Try to reduce the height of the vortex. Ten meters at least . . . then I’ll risk it.”

  The bird flew up into the air and instantly withdrew into the Twilight, down into the very deepest layers.

  I sighed and set off toward the entrance of the building. The trunk of the vortex swayed as it tried to touch me. I stretched my hands out, folding them into the Xamadi, the sig
n of negation.

  The vortex shuddered and recoiled. Not really afraid, just playing by the rules. At that size the advancing Inferno should already have developed powers of reason, stopped being a mindless, target-seeking missile, and become a ferocious, experienced kamikaze. I know that sounds odd—an experienced kamikaze—but when it comes to the Darkness, the term’s justified. Once it breaks through into the human world, an inferno vortex is doomed, but it’s only a single wasp in a huge swarm that dies.

  “Your hour hasn’t come yet,” I said. The Inferno wasn’t about to answer me, but I felt like saying it anyway.

  I walked past the stalk. The vortex looked like it was made of blue-black glass that had acquired the flexibility of rubber. Its outer surface was almost motionless, but deep inside, where the dark blue became impenetrable darkness, I could vaguely see a furious spinning motion.

  Maybe I was wrong. Maybe its hour had come . . .

  The entrance didn’t even have a coded lock. Or rather, it had one, but it had been smashed and gutted. That was normal. A little greeting from the Darkness. I’d already stopped paying any attention to its little tricks, even stopped noticing the words and the dirty paw tracks on walls, the broken lamps and the fouled elevators. But now I was wound up tight.

  I needn’t have asked the address. I could sense the girl—I kept on thinking about her as a girl, even though she’d been married. I knew which way to go; I could even see her apartment, or rather, not see it but perceive it as a whole.

  The only thing I didn’t understand was how I was going to get rid of that damned twister . . .

  I stopped in front of the door. It was an ordinary one, not metal, very unusual on the first floor, especially in a building where the lock at the entrance is broken. I gave a deep sigh and rang the bell. Eleven o’clock. A bit late, of course.

  I heard steps. There was no sound insulation . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  SHE OPENED THE DOOR RIGHT AWAY.

  She didn’t ask who it was; she didn’t look through the spy-hole; she didn’t put on the chain. In Moscow! And at night! Alone in her apartment! The vortex was devouring the final remnants of the girl’s caution, the caution that had kept her alive for several days. That was usually the way people died when they had been cursed . . .